


Double Bluff

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Brainy is sexy, Gen, John can act, eventual retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not telling Sherlock, Sherlock's not telling John, and neither of them is telling Mycroft what really happened in Karachi. Originally published in December of 2013 on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story tells the tale of just what it is that John has been hiding from Mycroft, as mentioned in chapter 11 of After the Fall (published on FF.net, to be moved over here eventually). 
> 
> The plot bunny that bugged me until I wrote this escaped from a set of PMs exchanged with Sevenpercent. Many thanks to her and to kate221b for lending me their eyeballs. :)

His mobile buzzed with an incoming text. John jerked with surprise, even though he had been anticipating the notification. Hoping for it with an intensity that bordered on prayer.

He shifted his anxious gaze down to screen and sighed with relief, feeling tension drain from his shoulders. It was from Sherlock. Of course it was.

_John? - SH_

John was more grateful than he could express that the message had come now, before he had to turn off the phone for his flight. He'd had to wait for Sherlock to initiate contact, not willing to take the chance that a message would distract Sherlock, or alert others to his presence as he made his escape. If Sherlock was texting him, though, that meant he was safe.

Of course, it also meant that he was checking up on John, which likely meant that he suspected John's participation in the clandestine rescue mission the consulting detective had taken upon himself. John hadn't really expected to be able to go undetected. If he managed to call in personal favors that got him there in time to be in position to assist, he had no doubt that his genius flatmate would deduce his involvement. If not during the operation, then after. He might not ever say anything about it – not when doing so would reveal his own role – but he'd know.

John had managed it. He owed more favors now than had ever been owed to him, but he'd been where he needed to be. Now it was time to get back before anyone suspected his part in things. Before anyone _else_ suspected.

The phone in his hand buzzed again. Sherlock was anxious.

_John? -SH_

The tannoy announced a final boarding call for his flight. John picked up his carry-on and draped the strap over his shoulder, approaching the gate while pecking out his response.

_Bugger off, Sherlock. - JW_

John handed his ticket to the flight attendant, accepting the stub she returned to him with a smile and a nod. He walked down the jetway to the plane. His phone buzzed again.

_John. Where are you? -SH_

_You are not doing this, Sherlock. - JW_

John hoped his response, in keeping with the tone he usually used when Sherlock's texts caught him at an inconvenient time, would divert the detective from questioning him too closely.

_Doing what? Are you all right? -SH_

_Yes, I'm fine. Stop texting me. -JW_

John found his row and apologized in broken Arabic to the business man he had to step over to reach his window seat. He settled in, shoving his bag under the seat in front of him before buckling the seat belt.

_Where are you? You are not in the conference hotel. -SH_

Sherlock had checked his blog for updates before texting, then, and seen his post about attending the medical conference in Berlin. He'd been fortunate that the timing of the conference had allowed him to travel legitimately to Germany, hopefully out from under Mycroft's watchful eye, before going to ground.

_I'm on a date, Sherlock. One you aren't going to ruin. -JW_

John smiled as he sent the text. It wouldn't fool Sherlock for long, if at all, but it would reassure him that John truly was fine. And safe.

_You don't speak German. -SH_

_Interest in sex does not need translation, you twat. And she's American. Conference attendee. -JW_

_How long is the conference? I may need you for a case. -SH_

_You may be home already from your case in the Highlands, but I'm still several countries away, for Christ's sake. You know I can't come running to help with whatever trouble your case is getting you into this time. -JW_

_You always come running. -SH_

_Bugger. Off. Bloody tosser. I'll be home in 3 days. I'm turning off my phone. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE. -JW_

_And you. -SH_

John turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket as the flight attendant came by, nodding politely as she met his eyes. Moments later the plane pulled away from the gate. As they taxied to the runway a tone sounded over the intercom and a voice began speaking. The announcement was given first in Arabic, then in English.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Qatar Airlines flight 221 from Karachi to Berlin with service through Doha. Travel time today will be fifteen hours, twenty-three minutes, expected arrival at five forty AM, local time. If you would direct your attention to the placard in the seat pocket in front of you ..."

John tuned out as the aircraft safety features were listed, the adrenaline that had kept him moving for the last 72 hours finally wearing off. The plane had barely lifted off before he slumped over against the window and allowed sleep to claim him, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock was safe, his mission accomplished, and he was on his way home.


	2. Chapter 2

"You hacked my computer."

"Hello to you, too, Sherlock. And if by 'hacked' you mean I used your password to log in, then yes, I did," John said agreeably, moving to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"Why did you use my computer? Yours was right there."

"And that right there is why I used yours," John replied, putting the milk in the refrigerator and turning to face his flatmate.

He'd arrived back from Germany the day before, and though he had seen evidence in the flat that Sherlock had returned as well, this was the first time the two had laid eyes each other since John had come home from the surgery to find a scrawled note from Sherlock stuck to the kettle, and the man's computer next to his on the sitting room table. That had been ten days ago.

"How was the case, then?" John asked, his expression amused. "In the Highlands of Scotland, was it?"

"Cold," Sherlock replied shortly.

"Well, that's to be expected, isn't it? February in Scotland ..." John said, "Are you going to tell me any more than that? For the blog, of course."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"What, how I knew your password?" John asked, deliberately sidestepping the request to tell of his own week of travel. "You told me that the night before I moved in here."

"I did not," Sherlock retorted.

John chuckled. He could tell that Sherlock was replaying their entire conversation from the night in question, from leaving the scene of the first case they'd worked together, to the Chinese restaurant, to the return to Baker Street and the episode with the drugs bust.

"You did. You just didn't predict that I'd ever understand it. But I did. Eventually."

He saw Sherlock's eyes flash with something that might be pride. John wondered if he should feel patronized. He snorted softly.

"Go on, then. Tell me," Sherlock instructed, collapsing into his armchair, fingertips pressed together against his lip, an interested expression on his face.

John smiled and shook his head, putting the last of the groceries in the cupboard and filling the kettle.

"After I agreed that I'd get rid of Napoleon's head – and I haven't forgiven you for the trick you pulled with that, you tosser,"

"Yes, you have," Sherlock interrupted with a smirk.

"– and move in," John continued, ignoring the interjection, "you said that left only the cocaine on your computer. For a while I worried that you meant you'd hidden another stash in the bloody thing, but you'd said that cocaine was on the computer, not in it. You are precise with words. You didn't mean drugs."

"No," Sherlock agreed.

John flicked a glance over at him as he grabbed mugs down for tea.

"I couldn't figure it out, and decided that it honestly didn't matter. The flat was clean, and you were just playing some kind of word game with me. I let it go and forgot all about it, until I came home from the surgery and found your note on the kettle and your computer on the sitting room table right next to mine."

John finished preparing the tea and put the milk back in the refrigerator. He picked up his RAMC mug and sipped from it, before picking the other mug up by the rim and carrying it carefully over to Sherlock. His flatmate accepted the tea with a nod, sipping the hot beverage gingerly while John eased himself into his arm chair, mindful of his own full mug.

"Last I checked, a trip to Scotland did not require a passport, let alone three of them," John said amiably.

"You know where ..."

"I hide cigarettes for your bloody danger night seek-and-find games, Sherlock. Of course I know where you keep them."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he gestured with his hand for John to continue.

"You left me a note, Sherlock. A note about your case in Scotland. You text me twenty-seven times a day on average, and you leave a note to tell me that you're off to the Highlands of Scotland on a case, and you'll be out of contact the whole time? I know you think I'm an idiot, but I did think you thought more highly of me than that," John said with a disappointed frown. "So, yes, I checked and found your passports gone. Didn't take much to deduce that your destination was not, in fact, Scotland. Travel further afield takes planning, which you would not have done on my laptop. That's why you got off your lazy arse to get your own computer, and why I needed to get on it."

"Mmmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"Cocaine. On your computer. Your bloody password was cocaine," John said with a snort. "You probably think that's some kind of cosmic joke, don't you?"

"You do, too," Sherlock drawled, his mouth twitching into a smirk.

"It is morbidly amusing," John admitted, shaking his head. "You are barking mad, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"Of course it wasn't in English. I tried translating it into each of the twelve languages you speak ..."

"Fourteen."

"What, really? Fourteen?"

"English, of course, Arabic, French, Frisian, Gaelic, Greek, German, Hebrew, Hindi, Latin, Mandarin, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish."

"I should have guessed Hebrew, but Frisian? Why?" John asked.

"It was for –"

"– a case, yeah," John said with a smile.

"I can get by in Flemmish and Japanese, too," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"You're bloody –"

"– amazing, yes, I know. You were saying? About the password?"

John laughed and took a mouthful of his rapidly cooling tea.

"When I ran out of languages that I knew you spoke, I spent an hour with Google, translating it into every option they offered and typing it in. After that, I realised that as much as English might be your mother tongue, it's not your preferred language. You're a scientist. A chemist."

Across from him, Sherlock's eyes lit up. John smiled.

"The chemical formula for cocaine didn't work. I didn't really expect it to, though. Might as well have written it in English. It's a good thing you've got that periodic table on your wall. Well, good for me, anyway. You probably have the bloody thing memorized, but I needed to see it. I tried swapping the chemical symbols for their atomic numbers. I tried substituting atomic weights. I changed the numbers to their alphabetic equivalents – lower case to denote subscripts. Eventually I thought to add on your preferred dosage, using the chemical symbol in place of the percentage. Two hours of running through increasingly wild ideas of how to write the word cocaine in chemist code, and I had a string twenty-nine characters long that worked, and I was in."

"Well done, John."

"Ta. You should clear your browser history, you know."

"I did not think it necessary. I'll remember to do so in the future."

"Or you'll just change the password."

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused.

"Anyway, I saw the emails from the eyes you had watching the situation, and found your travel plans. I made arrangements to put myself where I could back you up, if it was necessary. Rather glad I did."

"Your assistance was timely," Sherlock admitted. "Will you tell me?"

"Will you tell me?" John asked, turning the question around.

John watched as Sherlock withdrew. His expression shuttered.

"The case was brought to a successful end. That's all that matters."

"Right," John said with a sigh, letting it drop. He pushed himself out of the chair and went to put his empty mug on the worktop. "Successful case, and a nice dinner with the client to celebrate."

"No," Sherlock's voice was heavy with distaste.

"No?"

"I don't socialize with clients, John. I don't do dinner."

"Right then," John agreed with a nod, mouth twitching into a smile. "Hungry?"

"Starving."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kate221b and Sevenperent.

Sherlock was no longer at his microscope when John came back through the kitchen door. Glancing through to the sitting room, John saw him sitting in his armchair in his thinking pose, his eyes lit in amusement. There was no sign of the phone.

"You could have warned me, you know," John said conversationally as he filled the kettle. "You were obviously expecting something like this, but you didn't say anything about it. Not a single bloody word."

"Given how you worked out my password and plans, I assumed you'd be expecting this as well."

"Ta," John said, accepting the compliment as he flicked the kettle on. "But no, I wasn't."

"It may have worked out for the best, this way. Meeting Mycroft blind is preferable to meeting him anxious."

"I'm always anxious when I meet with your brother," John retorted. "You know, for a moment there, when he was telling me about the American witness protection scheme, I thought maybe that was your doing. Maybe that's what you'd arranged for her after smuggling her out of Karachi and away from the Taliban."

John glanced across the room and noted Sherlock's studiously blank expression. Still not interested in sharing the details, then. He shook his head and turned back to readying the mugs for tea.

"Of course, the next thing he said not only exposed the whole American business as a lie, but also revealed that he believes Irene to be dead. I don't know why I'd assumed that it was just your involvement in the whole bloody mess that you were keeping off the radar, but I did. I damned near gave the whole thing up when I realised that he didn't know she'd survived."

The kettle clicked off and John poured the hot water, stirring briefly before pulling the teabags out and tossing them in the bin.

"I knew you wouldn't."

"Good on you, then. I didn't. I would never have believed myself capable of deceiving Mycroft Holmes. Must be your bad influence."

"You're welcome," Sherlock said smugly as he accepted the offered mug of tea.

"How did he not see it? I'm an open book when it comes to the two of you."

"While he almost certainly noticed your increased agitation at the news of her death, he would have attributed it to other causes, which he would have anticipated and has every reason to believe are true."

"Oh?"

"He would have ascribed your distress to concern over how the news would affect me," Sherlock explained. "Did he mention that wretched 'danger night' nonsense to you when you returned the file?"

"He did, actually. I told him – again – that there are no drugs in the flat, and he just gave me a smile that suggested he thought I was fantastically dim, and told me not to let you out of my sight," John replied. "I'm not giving you cigarettes for this, you know."

Sherlock's only response was a scowl. John grinned in return.

"So, because he assumed I'd worry about your reaction to her death, he didn't realise that I was anxious about hiding her survival from him."

"Precisely. Relax, John. You've given nothing away."

"Right. Good, then," John agreed, then continued, "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, nonplussed.

"Your face when I came upstairs to tell you Mycroft's lies," John replied. "I'm overly familiar with your 'I don't give a flying fuck' expression, and I know when the indifference is a mask. You're not usually so obvious when you're pretending. Told me that something more was going on than just me being the bearer of Mycroft's bad news. You kept me from blundering too badly while I worked it out."

"As I intended," Sherlock said, with a hint of smugness. John huffed at him, irritated and amused.

"Was bloody uncomfortable, trying to talk to you about her without actually talking to you about her," he paused. "It was the phone, yeah? It's bugged."

"Obviously."

"Why did you take it, then? You knew it'd be bugged, he'd have known that you'd know, you'd have known that he'd know you knew … So, why?" John asked. "Aside from giving you the pleasure of watching me squirm?"

"He expected me to take it. Doesn't do to disappoint the British Government."

John mused on that while he drank his tea.

"If you hadn't taken it, he'd have wondered why you didn't behave as he expected."

"He'd have stuck his nose where I'd rather he didn't, yes."

"Right," John agreed, understanding.

"Knew you'd get there in the end," Sherlock replied.

John couldn't help but smile at the smirk he saw hovering around Sherlock's lips.

"Tosser," John grinned. "Wait," he said as a thought struck him, his grin fading. "If he expected you to take it, that means he expected me to give it to you, even though it's technically government property. I'm not sure I like what that implies about his opinion of me."

"He trusts you to tell me no when it matters, John."

"You having her phone doesn't matter then? No, of course not. It's been wiped, of course, and bugged," John said, "so what's the point, exactly?"

"Sentiment."

"He thinks you're sentimental about her?"

"Don't you?"

John paused, his mug at his lips, and shot a look at Sherlock. The consulting detective sat back in his chair, his expression curious. Real curiosity, not a mask put on to seem interested. John sipped his tea before answering.

"I ... No. Whatever it is that motivates you with regard to her, it's not sentiment. Respect? Curiosity? Fascination? I don't know. But I wouldn't say it's sentiment."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But it isn't my sentiment that I was referring to."

"You think," John said slowly, "that Mycroft sent you the phone because _he_ is sentimental."

"It's … an apology of sorts."

"An apology?"

"Guilt is a powerful motivator."

John recalled Mycroft's phone call after Sherlock had left him at the morgue the night of their Christmas party. It had been evident that the elder Holmes had believed his brother was distressed at Irene's supposed death, expecting that Sherlock might fall back to drugs to dull his alleged pain. He had clearly gone to some effort to create a believable lie to cover her beheading in order to keep Sherlock from further grief over The Woman's fate.

John shook his head. That wasn't guilt, it was … he sighed. Sentiment.

"Are all of your brother's sentimental gifts bugged, then?" he asked.

"All his gifts are bugged, sentimental or not. Have a care what you say around the stethoscope he sent you for Christmas."

"I'll be sure to bin it the next time I'm at the surgery," John replied, shaking his head. "Where is it, then? The phone?"

"Desk drawer," Sherlock said, tilting his head to indicate the drawer by the window.

"What will you do with it?"

"What he expects. I'll see if he missed wiping anything from memory, and crack it open. The explosives inside will destroy the phone, and his bug."

"Yes, well, try using that massive brain of yours to find a way to not to level the flat while you're at it," John admonished sternly as he pushed out of his chair and went back into the kitchen. "Mrs Hudson still gives me grief about the bullet holes in the wall. Blames _me_ for not hiding the gun rather than _you_ for shooting up the place."

Sherlock only grunted in response.

"Will this be the last we hear about it, do you think?" John asked, pulling a handful of takeaway menus from the top of the refrigerator and leafing through them.

"If she keeps her head down," Sherlock replied.

"Her history doesn't suggest that's very likely."

"Her future depends on it."

"We're not ever going to discuss it, are we?"

"I think not."

"Well, I wish her luck," he said resignedly, then he held out a pair of menus so Sherlock could see them. "Chinese or Thai?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, the next bit of this story are chapters 11 and 17 of After the Fall (which can be found on FF.net under the user name ThessalyMc, until I manage to move it over here as well). And then there will be the epilogue/chapter 4 here - with bees :)


	4. Chapter 4

"Will you tell me how you did it?" Sherlock asked, sipping the straw colored liquid from his wineglass.

"I followed the instructions. Wouldn't dare try to muddle through on my own and chance wasting your honey, no matter how many pounds you've managed to harvest."

"I wasn't asking about the mead," Sherlock replied.

"Then what ..." John broke off, his expression shifting from puzzled to incredulous. "In thirty-odd years you haven't figured it out for yourself?"

"Don't be daft. I figured it out within days of returning. But figuring it out and having you tell me about it are two entirely different things, John."

"You're asking now?" John said.

"It seemed as good a time as any," Sherlock replied blandly. "If you'll recall, I did ask you once before."

"Yes, I recall. I had a birthday, Sherlock, I didn't lose my memory."

"I believe it's considered a milestone birthday. And memories do tend to fade with advancing age."

"Every birthday is a milestone, you prat. It's open to question whether or not I'll smother you in your sleep before you reach your next one. 'Advancing age' my arse," John groused fondly, "As I remember, you asked for details of my trip, but preferred not to share your own."

"You saw it all when you hacked my laptop."

"I did not 'hack' your laptop. And seeing the flight numbers for your air travel hardly counts as seeing it 'all'."

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed, sipping his mead again. "You know it all now, though, don't you?"

"Most of it, maybe. But I had to hear it from her. I'd rather have heard it from you."

"My point exactly, John."

"Playing with your bees has got to be more interesting than hearing how I arranged a flight thirty years ago. Besides which, how can it possibly matter now?"

"It matters, John, because arranging that flight saved my life. If you had not seen through my attempt to deceive you and followed me to Karachi, I would not be here to 'play with my bees'. I never did thank you properly for that. I'd like to do it now. Will you tell me?"

"I ... Thank me? What?"

"Yes, John, thank you. Seems appropriate, don't you think?"

"Yes. All right. Fine. You want me to tell you things you already know, I'll do it," John said with a chuckle.

He sipped at his mead, almost wincing at the sweetness. He had been happy to try his hand at making it and Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, but after this he'd happily go back to drinking beer. He cleared his throat.

"It was a rather amazing set of coincidences, really, that let me pull it off. My mate, Bill, was a big part of it."

"Lieutenant Bill Murray, nurse. Served with you during your second and third tours in Afghanistan. Signed on for another and was assigned to a medical unit attached to the British Consulate in Karachi."

"That's him," John agreed. "He was able to get me kitted out with night vision gear and body armor and weapons."

"Hmm," Sherlock responded, nodding slightly. "I had discovered as much, though his motives for assisting you in such a questionably legal activity escaped me."

"Questionably legal? It was illegal as bloody fuck," John huffed. "Which is probably part of why he agreed, actually."

"And the rest of his reasoning?"

"You know how it is, Sherlock. You do things for your mates. We watched each others' backs, bailed each other out of trouble, patched each other up. We brawled together and covered for each other."

"He owed you."

"Might have done. Didn't keep score. I needed a favor, so I asked. He came through. I'm still trying to find appropriate ways of paying him back."

"I thought you didn't keep score?"

"We didn't. Still don't, I suppose. Doesn't mean I don't know how much I owe him."

"I don't suppose he'd like honey?" Sherlock asked with a smile.

John let out a bark of laughter.

"If you had a hundred hives, and a hundred years to harvest honey, it wouldn't be enough to cancel any part of my debt to him."

"It's my debt, John. And honey would just be the start," Sherlock replied.

"Have to send some to Devesh, then. If he hadn't gotten me to Karachi, I wouldn't have needed Bill's help."

"That would be Doctor Devesh Mehra, yes? Studied with you at Bart's, went on to work in administration at UCH before signing on with MSF. He used his position with MSF to arrange your flight to Karachi."

"He did. Dev was good at medicine, but he was brilliant at organizing. The parties he threw were legendary," John chuckled. "He joined MSF around the time I signed on for my third tour. Spent some time in the field in Malaysia and Honduras, but mainly he arranged for medical staff and supplies to get where they were needed. When I asked for his help, he drew up the paperwork to send me to the MSF facility in Karachi."

"Did he owe you, as well?"

"I think he thought so."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "I know what he did for you – for me – but why did he do it?"

"We spent a term working abroad in medical school. South Africa. Got into a bit of trouble one night. Racial tensions didn't evaporate when apartheid was abolished, and Dev's dark skin made him a target. Got jumped on his way home from the pub. I saw three men dragging him around a corner and ran to help. I punched one of them and shoved another before helping Dev get free from the one who as holding him down. The one I hit and the one who'd been pinning him down rabbited. The one I'd shoved had tripped over a kerb and fallen, and didn't move. Turns out, he'd had a knife, and had fallen on it. Dev was panicked, ready to run himself. I reminded him that he was meant to be a doctor, and there was an injured man down. He called emergency services while I made sure his attacker was stable, and we waited for the police and paramedics."

"He was paying you back for saving his life," Sherlock said, nodding his understanding.

"I think in the end, he was more grateful for the reminder than for the help fighting them off."

Sherlock grunted. John smiled and sipped his mead.

"And the medical conference?" Sherlock asked.

"That was all me. I couldn't exactly fly direct from London to Karachi if I intended to stay off the radar, especially given the sorts of surveillance you inspire. There was a conference in Berlin with a seminar on trauma surgery. I paid the late registration fees and booked the flight. Posted on the blog that you were off on a case in the Highlands and I was heading to Germany for a conference, packed a bag and left. Dev provided transport to and from Karachi, and Bill equipped me when I got there."

"How did you find me?"

"The email I read gave the time and place of her execution. I knew you'd be there. Didn't expect you to be masquerading as the executioner – almost shot you when you pulled that bloody sword back, but your stance was wrong. You weren't setting up to swing at her, so I waited. When you spun round and started fighting the Taliban soldiers, I started shooting. Didn't stop until you were clear. Made my way to Machar Colony. Left the night vision goggles in a skip a few blocks from the stadium. Tossed the vest under an abandoned car. Kept the gun with me until I got to the Mangrove forests at the coast. Broke it down and tossed the parts in as I walked on the beach. It was near dawn when I got to the MSF facility, where it was discovered that there'd been a mistake in my paperwork. Turns out you have to be out of the service for two years before you're eligible to work for MSF. Everyone was very apologetic about putting me on a flight back home."

Both men were quiet for a while, sipping their meads.

"I regret not realising that there might be other prisoners, and other guards. I would have cleared them for you. I would have spared you Nazir's death."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "It was an accident."

"You could have told me, you know. I don't like that you carried that alone. You didn't have to."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. John reached over and laid a wrinkled hand on the other man's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"I still owe Dev, but I did manage to repay MSF for their role in things," John said, breaking the silence. "Dev wouldn't let me pay them back for the airfare, holding on to the fiction of the mistake, claiming it was their error to have sent me in the first place. But when I approached him later, about doing some work for MSF, he took me up on it. Spent the 2013 hols in the Philippines, in the aftermath of that bloody typhoon."

"And you went to Ethiopia in 2017."

"Now you know why I wouldn't let you persuade me to stay in London," John said, pulling his hand away and rubbing at this thigh, massaging it gently where the old psychosomatic pain had begun to ache again. "So, that's it, then. I got there by way of a Berlin medical conference, a friend at the MSF, and an army buddy in Karachi. But you knew all that, didn't you?"

"Yes. I still liked hearing you tell it. Most illuminating. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

John watched as Sherlock stretched, mildly jealous at the ease with which the younger man still moved. A moment later, Sherlock stood, moving to take his wineglass to the kitchen. John was surprised when he paused behind John's chair, his hand coming to rest on John's shoulder.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, squeezing John's shoulder. "I'm glad you were there. It made being here possible."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, Sherlock," John replied, reaching around to clap his own hand over Sherlock's.

"Do you still have questions?" Sherlock asked, moving away.

"Only one," John replied, listening to the sounds of Sherlock moving around in the kitchen without turning. "I've always wanted to know why you didn't take me along in the first place."

"I didn't think you'd want to come. You didn't like her."

"No," John agreed. "No, I didn't. She used people."

"I used people," Sherlock countered.

"I suppose you did, manipulating them into revealing clues to solve puzzles. It was always about the puzzles for you – the mysteries, you were never motivated by the idea of helping people, I know, but that's what you did every time you joined up the dots and revealed the truth. I think it pleased you that your work resulted in a greater good, even if that isn't what prompted you to action. She … well. She didn't care about helping people either, and took no pleasure in that outcome if it chanced to happen. She was only ever motivated by personal gain," John reflected, then lifted the glass of mead to his lips with a small sigh.

He started with surprise when Sherlock's hand appeared, wrapping around his glass and pulling it gently from his fingers. Turning slightly, he saw the other man extending a pint glass of dark beer.

"Ta," he said, smiling.

Sherlock nodded briefly in response, settling back down with John's still half-full glass in his hand.

"You were right, you know," John began, breaking the companionable silence.

"I usually am," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"Berk," John laughed. "I would not have gone for her. I didn't go for her. I went for you."

"I know."

"Good," John responded. He lifted his glass toward Sherlock. "Cheers."

Sherlock tapped his glass against John's, smiling. They sat in silence, watching the bees buzzing around the hives as the sun set over their Sussex garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wonder when John heard most of the story from Irene, that bit can be found in chapter 17 of After the Fall on FF.net under the username ThessalyMc. I'll get it migrated over here eventually.


End file.
